


and closing the curtains

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10128023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: Rather than having sex, the sounds that Illya and Gaby overheard were Victoria brutally torturing Napoleon. Illya finds out. Much later. Much to his consternation and Napoleon's surprise.





	

Napoleon doesn’t think about what Victoria did to him until he sees his back for the first time.

There are long, thin angry red lines that criss-cross his back. And on his wrists, there are matching pairs from the handcuffs that she’d used to hold him down as she cut and cut and cut. He remembers the line of her smile – sharp and cruel, matching her personality to a T – and the way that she would pause, every now and again, to thoughtfully tap her long nails against her cheek.

She had contemplated him like a piece of fine art. But this one was one of her own creation and he was the canvas.

Cleaning the blood had been difficult. He’d had to hide the smell of iron, the sting and burn of his back. The burning pain around his wrists from where he’d torn the skin as he’d strained against his restraints.

He’s never dealt well with torture.

As proven by Rudi, but that’s behind him now. That’s in the past. Napoleon tries not to think about either, but it’s harder, now, with the space of time between them and he can’t deny that he wakes up in a cold sweat with a scream upon his lips.

He hadn’t given either of them that satisfaction. Neither of them had heard him scream. He’s proud of himself for that; he’s tougher than they think.

Maybe Kuryakin looks at him and sees someone too soft to pull the trigger, to withstand much torture, who would turn on him in a blink if offered something better, but that’s not who Napoleon is. He’s loyal to a fault; he’s proven that, he thinks. It’s one of his greatest flaws; he’s always loyal to the wrong sort of people.

It’s what got him caught in the first place. And Napoleon had thought that he’d long since learned his lesson.

But that’s not the case. He’s just as hopeless as ever.

It’s not his fault that one Illya Kuryakin is precisely his type.

He certainly hadn’t expected that, within the span of a few short months, he’d be hopelessly and stupidly in love with the man.

Napoleon has always made the worst choices. He always picks the wrong person.

For one, he’s quite certain that Illya and Gaby are quite smitten with each other. They’ve got a chemistry and certain… air about them that he’s seen around too many couples not to know that they’re at the point where they’re still dancing around each other. And he’s loath to break up such a good team with feelings that are as dangerous as they are damningly unrequited.

Napoleon knows the odds, and he knows that his on this aren’t great. There’s a better chance that they’ll land a man on the moon than Illya will return his feelings.

So, imagine his shock when, after yet another mission where things have gone horribly wrong, Illya pins him to a wall and kisses him soundly.

“You are reckless, cowboy,” Illya growls. “Reckless and stupid. What the hell were you thinking?!”

Napoleon blinks, “I’m sorry. I’m stuck on the question of _did you really just kiss me_?”

Illya scowls, “That is unimportant. Your poor choices are what we are talking about.”

“I took a risk. It didn’t pan out the way I wanted. Or expected.” Napoleon shrugs, “But I want to know now: You kissed me. Why? I thought you and Gaby–”

“I thought you were more observant, cowboy. Gaby and I are friends. Very good friends.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, you don’t kiss very good friends. Have things changed?”

“I have not kissed Gaby. Just you.”

“Oh.”

“Speechless, for once.”

Napoleon blinks. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t planned or calculated this, so he has no idea what to do. It feels very much like he’s missed a step on a flight of stairs, and now he’s floundering on his way down.

“You kissed me,” Napoleon says. “Why?”

“I would think that obvious.”

“But you don’t like me. Or at least you tolerate me.”

Illya rolls his eyes, “Then perhaps you do not know me as well as you think, cowboy. I have been… attempting to measure your feelings for months, now. And it has been incredibly frustrating. You are like a chess game against a phenomenal idiot.”

“Thanks, peril. That’s not what you say when you’re trying to seduce a man.”

Illya snorts, “Am not attempting to seduce you. Simply stating the obvious.”

“Well,” Napoleon reaches up, to brush aside a strand of hair that’s come out of place. “That’s–”

He doesn’t have time to finish. His sleeve must have slid down, revealing the thin, twin white lines of scars about his wrists; ones made more ragged and deep from the restraints on the chair that continues to haunt his sleep, even now.

Napoleon freezes. Illya was never supposed to see those, never to know that they existed.

Catching Napoleon’s arm in his hand, Illya tugs up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the scars to his intense, blue eyes. Those glacial eyes of his narrow, and he gives Napoleon a look that he knows all too well.

It’s a look that promises _very_ bloody murder.

“Where did you get these?”

Napoleon swallows, tries to find his usual candor, and fails. Instead, he shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage, “Oh, you know, here and there.”

“Napoleon.”

Illya has never used his name before.

“Victoria,” Napoleon sighs. “We didn’t, ah, have sex. That night in the hotel. She…”

He doesn’t know what to say. That he couldn’t defend himself against her without blowing their cover; that it was simply easier to let her have her way despite _knowing_ that Illya and Gaby were likely listening to him. If he’d let them know, if they’d found out…

Their cover would have been blown. All of them would be dead and the Nazis would have a nuclear bomb in their possession capable of destroying an entire city and sparking a third world war.

He couldn’t risk it.

“You should have said something,” Illya says, softly. He turns Napoleon’s arm, leans down, and presses a soft kiss against the delicate skin of Napoleon’s inner wrist. “We could have done something.”

“And blow our cover? No thanks.”

Illya scowls, “After, then. You needed aid, not to run off after her again. Not after what she did to you.”

“I can hold up just fine, peril,” Napoleon says, quietly. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me.”

“Someone should. You are reckless. One of these days, it will get you killed.”

“So, what does that make you? My keeper?”

“If I need to be, then yes. But that is not what you need,” Illya replies. “I will simply… watch you. Make sure you are not too reckless.”

This time, Napoleon is the one who snorts. “I don’t need that.”

“You need a partner,” Illya says with certainty. “And so do I. You… balance me. We are better together, Napoleon. You should know that by now.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat, which does little. Instead, he nods, his heart fluttering in his chest and he resists the urge to press a hand to his chest to try and quiet it.

“I do,” Napoleon replies, softly. “I thought – nevermind.”

“You thought I would fly into a rage? I have more control than that.”

“You would have. Back then,” Napoleon replies, quietly. “Don’t deny it; we both know you would have. And it would have compromised our mission.”

“But you still should have said something. After,” Illya qualifies. “I could have helped you; I would have watched you more closely.”

Very gently, almost hesitantly, Napoleon lays a hand on Illya’s face, “What’s done is done. You can’t do anything about it now.”

He shivers when Illya’s hand comes to rest over his. And that shiver goes straight down his spine, sparking a fire in his gut when Illya presses a kiss to the palm of his hand. It’s such a ridiculous, simple gesture, but it’s more intimate than anything he’s ever done.

And he’s done _a lot_.

“Let me keep you safe, Napoleon,” Illya murmurs. “You are reckless. I will watch your back, keep you from harm again.”

“You can’t promise me that. Not in this line of work.”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“Hey, I’m being honest here.”

“And I am being realistic. If you are not careful, if I do not watch you, you will get hurt again. Perhaps worse,” Illya replies. “I will not allow it. Please… be more careful. For my sake.”

Napoleon’s heart has leapt up into his throat. He knows that he can’t make that promise, not with the kind of work they do. It’s all about risk, about danger; they’re always walking a thin line between success and failure that grows thinner by the day.

He can’t risk it.

And yet…

“Alright. I will.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Words:** 1495 words
> 
> Written for [this prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=34432#cmt34432) over on the kink meme.


End file.
